


The Bloody Children of Chamon

by SparkyHavoc



Category: Age of Sigmar
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-03-03
Updated: 2020-03-03
Packaged: 2021-02-23 04:23:05
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23005693
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SparkyHavoc/pseuds/SparkyHavoc
Summary: in introduction to the Children of Chamon, a Chaos tribe that forms the core of my warband
Comments: 1
Kudos: 1





	The Bloody Children of Chamon

The Bloody Children of Chamon

The warrior watched as the warlord walked towards them. She was beautiful, her twin horns poking through raven black hair just accentuating that. Her armor, in mithril and emerald, was as glorious as any lord-celestant. The tattered cape she wore still carried the stains of countless battles. On her face were the markings of leadership in her tribe, two narrow strips, one under each eye, in bright red.

"Good. You are awake." She knelt down in front of the gold-clad warrior. “I am Arlyn Dochartaigh. You will die at my hands tonight. I just want to convey my thoughts to your so-called god. I wish to tell him to his face that he killed my people and so many other tribes. He was a coward, he was weak, and he will not claim more of my people without a fight." The stormcast tried to break his restraints at her words, muttering curses in a familiar tongue. She just smiled, and it made her guards nervous. "So much fight for one so broken. You don't like my words, do you?"  
She stood and kicked the broken leg of the warrior before her, eliciting a grunt of pain and further curses. "Do you not wonder why you are alive? Why your so-called god-king has not saved you from the pain? Look on that hill just past the camp." As she spoke, she removed the helmet from the until now faceless warrior's head. He strained against the light of the sun, glinting off the metallic ground of Chamon. Slowly, as his eyes adjusted, he saw a mage on the hill she pointed to. He was working with a large globular device, with several warriors guarding them both. Realization dawned on the stormcast’s face. They had a penumbral engine operating as it should. Not even Sigmar could see this camp.  
"You will return to your lord, but not before we sacrifice you to our pain and vengeance." he looked over and saw several stakes being erected, similar to what small villages use to burn suspected chaos worshipers. That was why he was captured. He was sure there were others as well. "Yes, you see what is in store for you. Don't worry, you will not be alone. Mind you, we do not hate you poor, warped creatures of Sigmar. But, until we can kill the coward himself, you and your brethren will suffice. And, those who turned their backs on our tribe." He could hear the malice in those last words. He did not know fear for himself, but he had pity for whomever she had in mind. With that thought, he heard a scream of pure agony. He looked over towards a group of people gathered around a forge.  
"It sounds like the ritual has started. Be proud, warrior. You are a sacrifice for a sacred day. Some of the tribe’s young hunters are becoming warriors. One is fitting his cuirass now. Then, after your sacrifice, they will begin making their plate armor." She smiled at that. Another scream rang out, this one female. The smell of boiled leather and scalded flesh reached and assaulted the stormcast's nose. He spat in the dirt.  
"You don't like our coming of age? Hunters must form a bond with their armor. You go through a similar thing, do you not? When your god steals you from your glorious death and binds you to your armor, remaking you in his twisted image. The difference is we chose to go through this pain. It pleases our lord. He knows we are dedicated to our vengeance. He grants us the strength to claim what is ours. What binds you to fight for your god-king? Pride? That laughable thing called justice? It can't be any true duty. You don't owe him for stealing your death from you." She walked off without waiting for an answer she knew she would never hear.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The little girl looked from behind her mother as her father tried to talk to the priest of Sigmar. She was just in her 8th summer, and she was beginning to understand the other peoples treated her tribe differently.  
"Why can’t we go with?"  
"You wild tribes are the reason chaos is even here. Why should we take likely traitors with us?"  
"We have not betrayed anyone, you fool. If you leave us, we will die."  
She watched in horror as the knight by the priest stabbed her father and pulled the priest through the portal. With a flash, it was closed, leaving the tribe locked on the plains of Chamon. Their chief lay there, bleeding, dying. Her mother fell to the ground next to him as he took the little girl's hand.  
“I’m sorry, my beautiful little Arlyn. I cannot protect you.”  
He caressed her cheek then looked to her mother as he drew his last breath. The tribe looked on, but had no time to mourn the chief. They started to work, digging in where they could. The smiths overturned their carts. The leather workers began to lash them together. The seers and mages began to cast defensive spells. The others began to work frantically to protect the children. The war was happening behind them, and they had nowhere left to run. They were a tribe of metalworkers; they had no hope of fighting demons. She began to cry, and so did some of the other children.  
There was the sound of wingbeats above them, and as they looked up, the whole tribe recoiled in fear. A huge demon with three heads landed before them, a black-clad warrior on its back began to speak.  
"Children of Chamon, the false god has fled before my might. Yet he abandoned you, letting his holy word-bearers strip you of your leader and your lives. Follow me, and I will grant you vengeance and strength. Follow that coward, and I cannot protect you from the hordes of daemons heading this way."  
They readily agreed, letting their fear and anger form the words for them. And among the voices pledging to the Warmaster, a small raven haired girl was loudest, pledging for her father.  
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~  
The fires burned nicely, and both carrion birds and imps waited for the deadly plate armored humans to clear out. The warlord watched from the back of her well-trained karkadrak, her and the tribes’ knights forming an honor-guard for the young warriors to join the ranks. They danced and enacted their greatest kills, beginning their own path to glory in the eyes of the Warmaster-God. She knew he would be watching if his attention didn't have to be elsewhere. One of the youngest acolytes ran up. The look on his face told her it was dire.  
"Speak, child. You bear a message from the seers, don't you?"  
"My lady, the master calls for us to return to the eight-points." he knelt as he spoke.  
"Very well. Let your mistress know we will march when the ritual ends."  
He rose and ran to the sorceress overseeing the ritual. The other woman looked over and nodded then started the final ceremonies


End file.
